


A Nice Young Man

by RobinLorin



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Thanksgiving, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2712635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Constance brings Aramis to Thanksgiving dinner as her fake deadbeat boyfriend. Based on the real-life Craisglist ad that went viral recently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Nice Young Man

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for the usual passive-aggressive bigotry you probably have to put up with at holidays, including homophobia, biphobia, classism, etc. Also mentions of parents having affairs, and a teenager having an abortion.

Constance didn’t know what made her do it.

It was a week before Thanksgiving, and she was staring at her laptop in the dark of her apartment, furiously scrolling through anything that would distract her from the ringing in her ears and the echo of her mother saying, “When are you going to bring a nice young man home?”

The words still stuck in her throat. (The frustrated “I’ve told you I’m a lesbian, Mom, why can’t you accept that and stop ignoring it?” The tight, bitter “I’ll bring a man home when Dad stops bringing his ‘secretaries’ to dinner.” The softer choice: “Not this year, or any other.”)

In the end, she’d only murmured agreeing noises and hung up as soon as possible. She couldn’t stand to come out to her mother all over again, especially when she knew that it would be as neatly ignored as it had the first few times.

The righteous anger pooled as tears behind her eyes, pressing on her sinuses and blurring the screen. Constance jabbed at the keyboard.

There was a screenshot of a Craiglist ad on The Daily Dot: “[This Craigslist felon will be your fake Thanksgiving boyfriend](http://www.dailydot.com/lol/felon-offers-himself-as-thanksgiving-date-on-craigslist/).”

Constance swiped at her nose and huffed a laugh as she read the ad.

_It's Thanksgiving. Want to skip that long, insulting conversation about how youre still single? About how your parents really want more grand children? Well, look no further!_

_I am a 28 year old felon with no high school degree, and a dirty old van one year younger than me painted like Eddie Van Halen's guitar. I can play anywhere between the ages of 20 and 29 depending on if i shave. I'm a line cook and work late nights at a bar. If you'd like to have me as your strictly platonic date for Thanksgiving, but have me pretend to be in a very long or serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I'm game._

_I can do these things, at your request:_

_-openly hit on other female guests while you act like you dont notice_

_-start instigative discussions about politics and/or religion._

_-propose to you in front of everyone._

_-pretend to be really drunk as the evening goes on._

_-Start an actual, physical fight with a family member, either inside or on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see._

_I require no pay but the free meal i will receive as a guest!_

It was clever, in a depressing way. Constance wondered if anyone would actually take the man up on his offer. She was sure that someone could use a deadbeat boyfriend to make relatives think twice of their guilt-tripping about grandchildren and weddings and heteronormative bullshit.

 _She_ could surely use a deadbeat boyfriend.

Wait a minute…

Constance wasn’t entirely sure what happened next; only that when she woke up the next morning, her hair plastered to her cheek and four mini-cartons of ice cream strewn on the floor, an email was waiting in her inbox.

_Re: Deadbeat Boyfriend._

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” said Constance, her fingers white around her steering wheel. “I can’t believe _you’re_ doing this!”

The man in the passenger seat raised his hands defensively. “Whoa, careful about assigning blame. You’re the one who emailed me.”

“You put the ad up!” Constance said. She could feel her voice rising, but the turn-off for her parents’ house was approaching and self-professed loser Aramis d’Herblay was sitting in her car, her car that her parents had given her a loan for, with his ratty backpack full of clothes and who-knew-what else, probably drug paraphernalia, in the backseat, and she was actually bringing a man to Thanksgiving, and not just a man but a pretend boyfriend no less, and Constance did _not have to calm down, dammit._

“Look,” said Aramis, who had an unshaven beard that Constance knew her father would hate on sight, which made it both perfect and the worst, ever. “If this is really freaking you out, we can call this off.”

“I’ll be late if we go back.”

“Drop me off at a rest stop or something. I’ve hitchhiked before.”

“On Thanksgiving?” Constance threw him a horrified look. “Absolutely not. You’re coming with me, and that’s final.”

“Fine. So how will you introduce me?”

Constance groaned. “Oh, god, what am I doing?” She took the turnoff with steady hands. She always got calm inside when she was dreading something. Her brothers used to call her cold-blooded, but it felt more like being prepared for the worst.

“Seems to me like you’re giving your folks a taste of their own medicine,” said Aramis. “That was the point of the ad.”

Constance glanced at him. He was lounging against the door, legs in a determined sprawl despite the small space. His hair matched the unclipped nature of his beard: wild, dark, and -- Constance noted it automatically, a lifetime of her father’s censure in her ear feeding her assessment -- _unprofessional_.

He was a few years older than Constance, if her guess was right. She hadn’t allowed much time for introductions when she had pulled up outside the pre-agreed meeting place, seen his sweatpants, three-wolf t-shirt, and socks-and-Birkenstocks combo, and had started making involuntary keening noises.

Now, Constance took a deep breath. “Right. We’re going to make my parents wish they’d never told me I should just settle down.”

Aramis grinned. It transformed his face; Constance could almost ignore the beard. “That’s the spirit.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Constance snapped. “You, you said you would argue and offend.”

“If that’s what you want, I’ll deliver,” Aramis said cheerfully. “Do you want subtle assholery? Full-throttle anti-system stoner? Creepy cheating boyfriend?”

Constance scowled. “No flirting. I don’t want to bring a pervert to Thanksgiving dinner. Just a deadbeat. If I find you touching _anyone_ \--”

“No touching,” Aramis said quickly. “I’m many things, but I’m not a sexual predator.”

Constance eyed him until she was sure of his words. “Good,” she said. “If I find you doing anything inappropriate, you won’t have to worry about starting a fight. I’ll take you out myself.”

“I’ll keep myself to myself,” Aramis promised. He looked at her like he was sizing her up. Constance didn’t care what he thought. She was petite, but she’d taken out a guy in a bar fight once. Well, Porthos might have softened the guy up for her with a few hits first, but Constance’s chair to his chin had definitely been the finishing blow.

“All I want you to do is make my parents regret every single time they told me to find a nice young man and bring him home,” she ordered. “Flirt with my cousins, talk about your ex-con days; whatever. And…” She hesitated for a moment, then went ahead with it. “And make sure you talk about all the boring heterosexual sex we’re having.”

Aramis made an understanding noise. “I assume the straight scene isn’t your thing?”

“No,” Constance said shortly.

“Understandable. I swing both ways myself. More than both ways; all ways. I swing upways, downways, sometimes even splitways. I’m a regular circus act.”

“Oh.” Constance relaxed a little. Aramis’ babble was at least distracting from her impending doom.

Then she took the turn into her parents’ suburban community, and she tensed up all over again. Ugh, what was she _doing_?

“So what should I expect?” Aramis asked, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Just the parents? Or is it a full shindig? Dogs? Cats? I should warn you, I’m allergic to parrots.”

“No pets. My dad hates them. My mother will be there, and my father, and his…” Constance grimaced. “His girlfriend.”

“Open marriage?”

Caught off guard, Constance nearly guffawed. Her parents would probably keel over if they heard that suggestion.

“No. They’re in denial. My dad brings his secretaries home for Thanksgiving every year. He always claims that they don’t have family nearby, and we should take them in, yadda yadda… Everyone knows he’s cheating, but no one comes out and says it.”

Constance hunched her shoulders. It sounded ridiculous. She and her brothers had always rolled their eyes when their parents had preached togetherness; and when she explained it to a stranger she felt stupid. Aramis didn’t say anything, but Constance felt defensive all the same. “But it’s nice for all of us to be together. And it’s easier than going from one house to the other every holiday, if they were divorced.”

“Of course,” Aramis said easily. “So, three siblings?”

“Two will be there,” Constance clarified. “I have three brothers. But Frederick never comes anymore.”

Frederick’s departure from all family events had come abruptly, when he had visited three years ago with his long-term boyfriend and announced that they were getting married. Their mother had spent Christmas evening introducing Frederick’s fiancé as his “roommate” and asking Frederick when he was going to find a nice girl.

Frederick had stood from his seat halfway through Christmas dinner, said, “I’m not going to find a nice girl, mother, because I’m a raging homosexual and I’m engaged to a man who’s never going to let me go to bed without letting me forget that I like taking it up the ass. Let’s go, Juan,” and had sailed out the door. Constance had replayed that moment in her head that night, staring at the ceiling, imagining herself in his place and feeling weak in the knowledge that she could never do it.

“Two brothers,” she repeated to Aramis. “My dad’s brother will be there for a while. My mom’s mom will be there too, but she’s hard of hearing so whatever you do won’t shock her.”

“I take that as a challenge.”

“Don’t. My grandma’s a crotchety old bat. The last time my brother made a dirty joke, she made him explain it to her at full pitch.”

“Alright, steer clear of grandma. I can call her ‘grandma,’ right? And your parents are ‘mom’ and ‘dad’?”

“Right, they’ll love that.”

“Your parents, are they liberals or conservatives?”

“They’re the kind of conservatives who pretend to be liberals, but they don’t like talking about gays, young people -- who they call hippies -- the unemployed, or anyone who isn’t them, basically.”

“Right. I’ll make a point to mention my stay in the gay, unemployed, hippie commune.”

“Oh, and make sure to say how you’d never trust a bank. Tell them you keep all your money in your mattress.”

“You don’t?” Aramis asked with genuine surprise.

“No,” she said slowly, “because I’m a _real person_.”

“What about proposals, miss reality? Or should that be Mrs. Reality?” Aramis dug around in his pockets and produced a stray soda can pull-tab. “Here, it’s your engagement ring.”

“God, no.” Constance thought about it and reconsidered. “Only if I get really desperate. I’ll give you a sign. Something like a silent scream after my parents ask me when I’m going to have my own family for the tenth time. But you’ve got to make it really bad.”

“Oh, I can do bad,” Aramis promised. “I’ll get fake drunk, fall on the floor when I go to my knees, lose the ring, accidentally propose to your mother instead; the whole shebang.”

Constance turned onto her parents’ street. The suburban neighborhood was rows and rows of houses, only distinguishable by the door ornaments and mildly different jack-o-lanterns on the front steps. Constance already itched for her own apartment in the city, where she didn’t feel so cramped.

“So this is home for you,” said Aramis.

“My parents’ home,” she said firmly. “They’re really sensitive about what the neighbors say about them, so make sure you talk about how ugly the street is. Ooh! Criticize Mr. Boman’s Christmas decorations. My parents always say he puts them up too early, but they’d _die_ if he heard them talking behind his back.”

She pulled up to the curb, behind her brother’s truck. Aramis hopped out. Constance barely had her door open when she heard him say, “You’re right, Constance. Those lights are downright fugly. Who the hell puts up reindeers before Thanksgiving?”

“Shut up,” she hissed reflexively. “No, I mean, go louder.”

“The suburbs suck donkey balls,” Aramis half-shouted. He kept up the stream of comments as Constance straightened out her dress one last time.

She rang the doorbell. A chorus of voices called indistinctly. (She knew what they were saying: “That must be Connie!” God, she hated that nickname.)

Constance’s mother pulled open the door. Her greeting froze on her lips as her gaze swung from Constance, in her neat dress and curled hair, to Aramis, who slouched in his sweatpants and yawned wide enough to reveal his back molars.

“Hi, Mom!” Constance said brightly.

“Hi, honey,” her mom said warily. “And this is…?”

She was clearly waiting for Constance to say, “Oh, him? He’s a vagrant I gave a ride to. Now we’re going to call the cops and have him put away in a nice, cozy cell at the local police station.”

Constance pulled herself up. It was all or nothing.

“Mom, this is my boyfriend, Aramis. Aramis, my mom.” Constance folded her hands together, hiding the jitters.

“Yo, mama,” said Aramis.

“This-- I-- I didn’t know you were seeing anyone, Constance,” her mother said. She was looking a little wide-eyed already.

“Sorry to keep it a secret. But I wanted to surprise you!”

“That Constance, huh?” said Aramis. “What a feisty minx. Y’know what I mean?” He stepped a little closer to Constance, not quite touching. Her mother was still looking between them; Constance needed to sell it. She put her arm around Aramis’ waist, smiling at her mom. She felt Aramis tentatively place a hand on her waist. It was almost sweet, how careful he was being while he leered at her mother.

“It’s quite a surprise,” her mom said weakly.

“So what’s the deal with those lights next door, huh?” Aramis asked loudly. “Who’s the geezer who lives there?”

“Why don’t you come inside,” Constance mom said quickly.

 

* * *

 

Forty-five minutes later, Constance’s uncle dubiously extended the carving knife in Aramis’ direction.

“Er, Aramis? Would you like to do the honors?”

Aramis waved his wine glass. He’d filled it up himself before anyone could offer to. “Better not. Besides, I’m not technically allowed around weapons since my court order.”

Constance’s uncle withdrew the knife hastily. “Good thinking. The court knows best. Better listen to them.” He laughed weakly, and then hurriedly bent to the task of carving the turkey.

“What was that?” Constance’s grandmother said loudly.

Aramis leaned over the table. “I got arrested,” he shouted. “Now I can’t have knives--” he mimed sawing with a steak knife-- “on my person.” He patted himself down.

Constance’s youngest older brother, Max, looked intrigued. “What did you get done for, Aramis?”

Her mother twitched, but was too polite to point out how her son was being rude. She was also too far away to poke Max.

“This and that,” Aramis said in answer to Max’s question. “Someone got in my face and I swung back.”

“Boys will be boys,” Constance’s uncle said heartily. Constance noticed her father’s secretary, Johanna, rolling her eyes.

Aramis put his arm on the back of Constance’s chair. He’d taken the seat too, without waiting to hear Constance’s mother’s seating arrangements. This had sparked a hasty but silent rearrangement as they had all pretended not to notice the lack of propriety.

Constance let Aramis do all the talking. It was so nice to have a buffer, even if he did have questionable footwear.

“So when did you graduate, Aramis?” said Constance’s dad. Constance could tell that he was trying to figure out Aramis’ age; irony from the man who was currently playing footsie under the table with his new twenty-five year old secretary.

“Never graduated,” said Aramis. “Oh, you mean college? Yeah, I never did that either.”

Constance’s brother Ben finally broke his silence. “Wait, you never graduated high school?” He crossed his arms and stared at Aramis across the table. A few chairs down, Max did the same. He was always so easily manipulated, Constance thought crossly. If one more person here could be a free-thinker like Frederick, this whole family would be better off.

“Who needs it?” Aramis waved his wine glass around some more. “The American school system is a brainwashing prison and the teachers are the jailers. Plus, I got my girlfriend pregnant and the school said I shouldn’t come back.”

Constance’s father choked on his mouthful of wine.

“Turkey’s ready!” Constance’s uncle said loudly. “Dig in, everyone.”

“Let’s say grace,” said Constance’s mother. She grabbed for Ben’s hand. Constance knew she’d be whispering, “Be nice,” under the cover of the prayer.

They had all barely dropped their hands before Aramis was helping himself to mounds of food. Constance eyed his plate and wondered if he was ever fed in the army.

“It’s too bad Frederick couldn’t be with us today,” said Constance’s mom. “He’s up in Vermont with his friend Juan.”

Constance gritted her teeth. Frederick would have come if they’d acknowledged his husband of three years as more than a “friend.”

“And Mabel couldn’t come either, but we’ll see her at Christmas,” Constance’s mom continued. “Constance, you remember Mabel, don’t you?”

Constance stared at her mother. “Of course I remember Mabel. I dated her son for two--” She cut herself off, seeing the trap too late.

“Have you talked to Jacques recently?” her mother asked, a gleam in her eyes. “Mabel says he’s going to graduate school. He’s going to be an accountant, you know.”

This last part was half-directed at Aramis.

“Jacques?” Aramis asked through a mouthful of turnips.

“My last boyfriend,” she muttered to Aramis. “Before I, you know, realized…”

“Realized what, dear?” her mother asked. She did her best to not look directly at Aramis. Maybe she thought that if she only saw him out of the corner of her eye, he would prove to be only a figment of her imagination.

 _Realized I'm a lesbian, mom_ , Constance wanted to say, but then an awkward silence would spread and Constance’s mother would look pointedly at Aramis, her boyfriend; and Constance would wither in her seat with the stares of her family pointed at her.

Who was she kidding? She wouldn’t have said it anyway.

“Made her realize she didn't want to hang with such a square,” said Aramis. “Me and her, we're thinking of renting an RV. Just cruising around. Defying the capitalist system with apathy, man. We shouldn’t have to trade our lives away to the 9-to-5 drudge just ‘cause some old folks think we should get jobs.”

“Constance is studying to be an artist,” her mother said sharply, and Constance’s heart would have swelled with the pride in her voice if it hadn’t been the first time that her mother had ever sounded pleased about Constance’s career choice.

(“Are you sure you want to go to the University of the Arts, Constance? What about the technical school right nearby? They have so many more career paths.”)

Aramis didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, totally. She’s gonna go far. Women should get to be the breadwinners nowadays. We’re gonna make a great team. She’ll bring home the bacon and I’ll eat it!” He shoveled another forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

“You don’t plan to… contribute to the household income?” Constance’s father asked delicately.

“Nah. I got better things to do than sell my soul to the man. I’ve been making these hemp bracelets and giving them out to strangers for free. Happiness is shared.” Aramis made some kind of faux-Buddhist gesture, knowing full well that Constance’s family wouldn’t know the difference.

“Seriously?” said Ben.

“Is anything _really_ serious?” said Aramis. “In the world, is anything ever serious? Or are we all just God’s joke?” He looked up to the heavens and crossed himself. “Amen, Father.”

“A philosopher, eh?” said Constance’s uncle in a voice that strived for ‘hearty’ and fell short.

“I prefer to think of myself as a rastaphilosopher.”

Constance saw the setup and she couldn’t, she just couldn’t, let it go.

“Why’s that, Aramis?” she murmured.

His foot bumped against hers appreciatively.

“Cuz I always get philosophical when I’m high.”

In the awkward silence that followed -- no one mentioned _drugs_ in this household, perish the thought -- Constance stifled her giggles, and Aramis reached across the table for the turnip. His sleeve rode up and revealed the edges of a winding, dark tattoo.

“Young man, there’s dirt on your arm,” Constance’s grandma said loudly. Constance’s mother made a squeak of disapproval.

Johanna, Constance's dad's secretary, spoke up for the first time. “He’s just got a tattoo, lady.” She nodded to Aramis’ arm. “I guess you’re part of the art community as well.”

“Oh, these?” said Aramis. He raised the arm with the tattoo and tugged his sleeve down with his other hand. The turnips tilted precariously and Constance struggled not to lunge for it. “Nah, I got this one after I dropped out of the army.”

"You were in the army?" Constance's dad asked, a desperate gleam of approval entering his eyes.

Aramis, sensing the impending approval, quickly backtracked. "Only a year. My sergeant always said I'd never cut it." He chuckled and shook his head. “That guy. Bet he wishes I didn’t punch him in the face now!”

Constance’s father subsided.

“It was like, fuck the system, you know?” Aramis continued. “Anyway, this ain’t art. All that shit they teach in museums, that’s just dead guys throwing paint around. Art is dead, right? These tats are, like, beyond art. They’re just lines on skin. They could be anything.”

Constance thought he was getting a little carried away. She tapped a fingernail on her water glass.

Aramis glanced at her and pulled his sleeve back up casually. “Anyway, I left the army and now I’m searching for my next inspiration. Right now my big thing is what I call a sunset graveyard. Eighty percent vodka.”

Aramis hesitated, obviously weighing the pluses of having a job with the possible negatives of being a bartender. Constance squeezed his arm. She had this one.

“Aramis tends bar,” she said. “Downtown. At night.”

Her mother gave a delicate shudder. The city, at night? In a bar? Who knew what kind of nasty, immoral things happened in a city bar, far away from the safe suburbs.

“The night shift. That must be hard,” Johanna said sympathetically.

“It’s cool. The night is when all the hot customers come out.” Aramis winked at Constance’s oldest cousin. “Constance doesn’t mind, right Constance? She knows I’ve gotta sell myself to sell the product. Ha-ha!” He cackled and took a gulp of wine.

“Oh, my god,” said Ben. “What does she even see in you?”

Aramis leered at him. “Honestly, I’ve gotta say ninety percent of the time what’s in her is my massive--”

Constance’s mother sputtered. “Ben! Don’t say such rude things at the table!”

“Are you kid--” Ben subsided under the force of his mother’s glare. He speared his vegetables with a vengeance.

Constance’ father struggled to fill the silence.

“How about those Yankees, huh?” he said at last.

 

* * *

 

By the time the desserts were cleared from the table, everyone was showing signs of strain; everyone but the source of the trouble himself, who stretched his arms above his head, burped, and scratched his beard.

Constance’s only felt a little guilty about the lines around her mom’s eyes. It hurt her to see her mom looking so worried, but she only had to remind herself about all the times her mother had tried to fix her up with a boy after Constance had come out. Or when she had bought Constance a frilly dress out of the blue, in what Constance knew was a passive-aggressive attempt to keep Constance from going full lesbian butch.

Or the countless phone calls like the one that had lead her to email Aramis in the first place:  _“Constance, when are you bringing a nice young man home?”_

Well, Constance’s mother had gotten her wish. And now she was stuck trying to find a way to approve of Constance’s step forward into the heterosexual lifestyle.

If Constance had brought a girl home, they would be fawning over her by now -- but just as “Constance’s friend.” Their pathetic attempts to find anything in Aramis to approve of were more effort than they’d ever put into accepting Constance’s sexuality.

“Time for the lights, I think,” said Constance’s father. He heaved himself up from the table and offered Johanna a hand up. She had been watching the drama with barely concealed amusement all through dinner, offering a word in Aramis’ favor every now and then. Constance’s mother bristled every time Johanna smirked.

Now her mom said, “Not the lights, Howard.”

“It’s my house, and I decide to put the lights up, woman!” Constance’s dad guffawed at his own not-joke and slapped his brother on the shoulder as he went to the garage to collect his string of Christmas lights.

“Dad’s Thanksgiving tradition,” Constance said to Aramis. “He likes putting the Christmas lights up today. Then he takes them down on Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s too early for Mr. Boman, but not for your dad?”

Constance nodded. “Now you’ve got it. Here in the ‘burbs, it all depends on which side of the fence you’re on.”

They all bundled into their outerwear -- Constance found a spare hat and a light jacket for Aramis -- and stomped out to the small lawn, where they huddled together and watched Constance’s dad teeter on top of a ladder to hang the string of lights from the roof.

Constance and her brothers, used to this routine, made patient suggestions. They knew full well that their mother would shush them if they got too loud, and so they’d have to repeat themselves three times before their dad would hear them. After all, they didn’t want to be unseemly in front of their neighbors.

Aramis had no such compunctions.

“A little to your left!” he boomed, cupping his hands over his mouth. “Your other left! No, a half a foot higher! Maybe a foot! You can do it, Pops! Reeeach!”

Constance’s mother made jerky nodding gestures toward Aramis, indicating that Constance should restrain her boyfriend.

Constance tapped Aramis on the elbow. When he paused and looked at her, she whispered, “Louder.”

He grinned.

Constance’s dad made his way along the house, doing his best to ignore Aramis’ shouts and the neighbors peeking out of their doors to see what the noise was all about. He hastily draped the last bit over the railing and descended the ladder.

“I think that’s a fire hazard,” Aramis yelled, from five feet away.

“Maybe tone it down, son,” Constance’s dad said, a mite testily.

“Sorrryyyy,” Aramis called.

Constance’s father exchanged a look with her mother. Constance’s heart skipped. Maybe if they understood how wretched it would be to have Aramis over, they’d be open to an alternative date -- even a girl. It was a childish thought, but it was what her parents had driven her to.

Her father cleared all irritation from his face and smiled at his audience. “Ready for the show?”

Constance clapped and her brothers hooted (quietly). Constance’s mother said, “We’re waiting, Howard.” Johanna repeated the words into Constance’s grandmother’s ear, then went back to texting. Constance felt a twinge of pity for that poor girl, stuck with this family today of all days.

Constance’s dad bent over the railing and groped around for the external electrical outlet. He found it, drew the end of the cord to it, and plugged it in. Constance held her breath and looked at the lights.

The lights didn’t go on. Instead, a pop and a shower of sparks erupted from the first few bulbs on the string. Constance’s father cried out and Aramis --

Aramis was gone from Constance’s side, already at her father’s, somehow lifting all 180 pounds of him up and down the stairs. Aramis sat him on the grass. One hand went to her dad’s face. Constance only just registered that he was checking for injuries before Aramis was gone again, jumping onto the railing and balancing there perfectly like some kind of grungy Spider-Man. He crouched and ripped the cord out of the socket.

He jerked the cord in one precise motion and the string of lights fell from the roof onto the grass, with a clack-clack-clack of the whole bulbs and another small white firework from the faulty ones.

Then Aramis was jumping off the railing, onto the grass, ripping off his borrowed jacket and patting it onto the broken bulbs, killing any more sparks.

Constance blinked. There was a moment of shocked silence.

Her mother gasped. “Oh, he was so fast,” she said wonderingly.

“Talk about a quick thinker,” Johanna said admiringly.

Constance’s father heaved himself off the ground and brushed himself off. He looked around at the tangle of lights and the jacket covering the exploded bulbs.

“Well,” he said. “That was impressive. I owe you thanks, young man.” He extended his hand to Aramis.

“We all do!” said Constance’s mother. “Our house could’ve gone up. You’re a hero!”

Aramis looked at Constance. “It was a fluke,” he said quickly. “I thought I saw a, uh, a…”

Constance stepped up to him and wrapped her hand around his arm. “Thanks, dad,” she said.

“I didn’t mean to,” Aramis soldiered on. “I didn’t even know anything was going wrong, really.”

Constance ignored his blabbering. “But we should really be going. I don’t want to drive Aramis home in the dark.”

Aramis made one last attempt. “I’m staying on my friend’s couch. I’m homeless!”

“Time to go, boyfriend of mine,” said Constance, and dragged him away.

She managed to leave with minimal fuss and a piece of pumpkin pie for the road. Aramis held the Tupperware in his lap. He was staring out the window, clearly lost in thought. Constance let him drift.

The tires whizzed over the wet pavement. Constance’s car was decent, but getting old; the windows rattled, and something clicked inside the radiator vents.

“Sorry I did that,” he said eventually. “They were so close to kicking me out for good.”

“Yes, then you had to go and ruin it all my saving my dad’s life,” Constance said tartly. “It doesn’t matter.”

The silence spooled out for a good, long minute. She was sure the scene was replaying in his mind too.

“So… ” she said. “Do you do martial arts?”

“Special Forces.”

“Ah.”

The vents clicked some more. Constance automatically tapped the fan level down and the noise subsided. “Are you still serving?” she asked.

“No. Just finished two months ago.”

“Ah,” Constance said again. She cast her gaze over Aramis’ outfit with a new eye. Maybe the only way he could count on a Thanksgiving meal was to put an ad on Craigslist.

He saw her looked and smiled ruefully. “This isn’t my everyday garb. I mean, it is, but I’m not--” He lifted his hands and let them fall back into his lap. “I’m doing alright. I’m working at a restaurant downtown.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And I’m going to this gym, it’s got a great archery range. I’m thinking of applying to be an instructor.” He shrugged a shoulder.

“You do archery, then?”

“Was in the club in high school. Got a good eye for targets. Best marksman in my unit.”

“So all that stuff, was it lies? Dropping out of the army and getting arrested? And getting your girlfriend pregnant and all?”

“Technically, those are all true. I left the regular corps for the Special Forces after a year. I was a shoo-in because of my marksmanship. The arrest was some bullshit at a bar. As for the girlfriend.” He winced. “Yeah, I got Isabelle pregnant. She miscarried, though. She went to college, I think. We kind of lost touch.”

“Oh.”

Constance thought of the TA in her Ethics In Teaching class, who had confided in Constance after a long debate on the ethics of thorough sex ed, that she’d had an abortion in high school. Helene’s story of total reliance on her community’s family planning services had cemented Constance’s belief in the necessity of proper sex ed in schools.

Without proper support, Helene had almost dropped out of school; as it was, she had finished a few years late. Aramis’ own unplanned pregnancy crisis must have been the impetus for his fail-out. The more time Constance spent with Aramis, the more layers she seemed to peel back.

The man himself wiggled around in the passenger seat to look at her properly. “Listen,” he said, “I appreciate you sticking up for me in the end. You shouldn’t have, though, they were just getting to really despise me. I could see the veins in your dad’s neck sticking out. Little--” He illustrated on his own neck, then dropped his hand when Constance glared. “You could have played it off as a joke or something, make your family think--”

“I don’t care what they think,” she said. “They only liked you when you whipped out some kind of ninja Batman moves.”

“Ninja Batman? Isn’t that essentially the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?”

Constance revised her opinion: there were no layers to Aramis. “Shut up. My point is, they were obviously never going to really like you.”

“So what? Some people don’t. I’m like Spam: you either love me or you throw me in the trash.”

“Will you stop being so egotistical and let me finish!” Constance cried. “They were never going to like you, but you were still a thousand percent better choice than any girl I’d bring home. Even if my hypothetical girlfriend saved an orphanage from combusting under a pile of inflatable Santas, they’d still say, ‘Gee, Constance, your friend’s a little _sporty_. When are you getting a boyfriend who’ll do that kind of stuff for you girls?’”

“‘Sporty’ isn’t so bad.”

“It is when you know my family.”

Aramis quieted. “You know, I’ve seen families break apart for less. But at least they’re trying, you know? My folks never--” He broke off and shook his head, as if to deny he’d said anything. “But you shouldn’t give up on them. You can love people and still not like them.”

Constance snorted. “Is this the Hallmark lesson of the day? I’ve figured that out all on my own, but thanks for the condescending advice. Why do you think I still go home every Thanksgiving and Christmas?”

“Ah,” said Aramis after a moment. “Truly, you are wise beyond your years.”

“Oh, come on,” said Constance. “You think, because I’m a girl, I didn’t have an angsty teen stage where I swore I hated my parents and would never ever come back once I moved out, and then I grew up and realized that they’re humans too and they make mistakes, and that I still love them for all their faults?”

“I was following you up until the ‘they’re humans too’ part,” said Aramis.

“Don’t tell me you never grew out of the teen angst stage and haven’t seen your parents since you quit high school or something,” Constance said sarcastically.

There was silence from Aramis’ side of the car.

“...And you joined the army because they were lecturing you for getting a girl pregnant and you couldn’t stand to be under their roof anymore so you decided you’d rather get shot at than let their money pay for your overpriced education,” Constance continued weakly.

More silence, increasingly guilty.

“...And you haven’t talked to them since you left, even though you’ve been back for two months and they have no idea whether you’re alive or not?” She ended in a squeak.

Aramis cleared his throat. “Who knew such a goody-two-shoes would be able to read me so well? There are layers hidden behind your curls.”

“I couldn’t say the same,” Constance lied. She hit the wheel with her palm. “What are you doing here? You should be at home with your family!”

“No, no. One family event a year is enough for me.” Aramis shuddered.

“Come on. Do they know you’re back, at least?”

“No, so they’re not missing anything.”

“Shouldn’t they know?” Constance demanded. “Did they--” She wondered if she’d misread the situation. “Did they kick you out or anything? I mean, after your girlfriend?”

Aramis scowled. “No. They just kept going on about college, and ‘my best interests,’ and all this bullshit. I knew I’d be better in the army.” He punched his knee. “I knew it. But they wanted me to go to a technical school. And they wanted me to stop talking to Isabelle. Even though she was my first steady girlfriend and they wanted me to stop dating guys.”

“Why didn’t you, I don’t know, run away with her?”

“She stopped talking to me,” Aramis mumbled.

Constance let a mile whiz by without commenting.

“So let me get this straight,” she said finally. “You felt stifled because your biphobic parents wanted you to go to college, and your girlfriend had a miscarriage and stopped talking to you.”

“Yeah.”

“So your solution was to drop out of high school and ran away to the army without telling your family where you were going?” Constance smacked the wheel again. “Aramis, no!”

“I told them where I was going,” said Aramis defensively. “I called them from base camp.”

Constance groaned. “And have you called them since? Have you even let them know you’re alive?” she asked when Aramis was silent.

“I called them once or twice,” he said in an obvious lie.

Constance sighed and pulled over to the shoulder of the highway.

“What are you doing?” demanded Aramis.

She stopped fully and put the brake on. She turned to Aramis and regarded him seriously.

“You’re not going to go all serial killer on me, are you?” Aramis asked warily.

She ignored this. “Aramis, you’re a good person. I believe that. You may be a little…” she wrinkled her nose. “Grungy. But that doesn’t make you lesser. You’ve done amazing things. You saved a person’s life today. You’ve probably saved more in the Special Forces. You deserve more than my family looking down their noses at you just because you didn’t finish high school. So, tell me: where do your parents live?”

Aramis gaped at her. “About an hour away,” he said. “You couldn’t drive there now.”

“I could, and I will,” she said.

“I don’t want to see them,” he said quickly. “You can’t make this decision for me. They could be black market drugs dealers, or, or child abusers.”

“Are they?” Constance asked seriously. “Is that why you don’t want to see them?”

Aramis deflated. “No. They’re just… they’re my _parents_ , you know? I can never be as good as they want me to be. And they’re nosy, homophobic...”

“You can love someone and still not like them,” Constance parroted back at him vindictively. “You saw the spectacle at my parents’ house. You know I know." Her voice softened. "But you deserve people to irrationally love and despise during the holidays, too. If you have somewhere to go for Christmas that isn’t a Craigslist stranger’s house, we can go there instead. But you deserve another chance with people who’ll love you no matter what. So. What do you say?”

She put her hand out. Aramis hesitated, then grabbed onto it. “Okay.” He squeezed her hand.

Constance had actually been reaching for her phone to plug in the directions, but this was fine too. She squeezed his hand in return.

Then Aramis’ head jerked up and he stared at her. “I can’t -- I couldn’t see them now! I haven’t shaved all week -- I’m wearing Birkenstocks--”

“Aramis!” Constance snapped. He looked at her with wide eyes, the most emotion she’d seen on his face that day. “You’re alive. Trust me, they’ll be glad to see you.”

“For about two seconds, and then the questions will start. Where have you been, what are you doing with your life, do you have a _girlfriend_? No, I can’t do this.”

“The first question is your problem. Make up some kind of code of silence in the Special Forces, that will impress them. You’re gainfully employed and you’re looking for a way to put your unique skills to use. As for the girlfriend part…” She looked at him shrewdly. “Are your parents the same kind of ‘we’re not homophobes, we’re just willfully blind’ that mine are?”

“More or less,” Aramis said weakly. “Only I actually like girls, so they thought I was just experimenting with guys.”

“Fine. I can work with that.” Constance reached across to the glove compartment and found her special dark lipstick, the one she kept for nightclub emergencies. She smeared it on. Her purse supplied the purple eye shadow she’d lightly dusted on this morning, and which she now applied liberally to her eyelids.

“What are you doing?” Aramis asked, sounding like he knew the answer and was giving her a chance to say anything but that.

“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘You don’t have to outrun a lion; you just have to outrun the slowest person running from the lion’?”

“I’ve heard it with zombies, but yeah.”

It took a few wiggles, but she managed to roll her stockings off her legs and reveal her unshaven legs. She unzipped the back of her dress enough so that it skewed to one side, revealing her bra strap and nearly falling off her shoulder.

“You did me a favor, and now I’m paying it back.” Constance studied her reflection in the rearview mirror. “Your parents won’t care if you show up after years of radio silence. You don’t have to be the perfect son. You just have to outshine one person.”

She flipped the mirror up and beamed at him. “I’m going to be your deadbeat girlfriend.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am thankful every day for [Nina](http://trautkeinenartigenkindern.tumblr.com/), who is simply the best. Go check out her tumblr, peeps.


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